The palace sun rose behind neem trees, casting a warm glow on the cracked stone of Chandrika Mahal. Prince Adityaveer, now in his sixth year, sat near the servant's path, watching clay pots being carried up a gentle slope. He counted quietly—one, two, three trips—each servant walking slowly, backs bent, arms trembling.
He squinted thoughtfully and picked up a broken wheel near the courtyard wall. Its shape, its curve… it whispered something to him. Later that day, he sat in his chamber, tracing the shape again on soft banana-leaf parchment. A flat platform, four wheels beneath it, and a wooden handle up front. A cart.
When Ratan, the carpenter's son, saw the design, he chuckled. "My Prince, even a farmer could make this."
"Then why hasn't anyone?" Adityaveer asked.
Ratan's hands paused. That night, the first cart was built. Simple, a little wobbly—but it rolled. Anaya, a young laundry maid with a crooked spine, pushed it the next morning and cried. "I can carry three pots now. My back… doesn't scream anymore."
Adityaveer didn't celebrate. He simply stared at the cart and murmured, "Now they walk lighter."
He noticed another thing. The maids swept for hours with bundles of grass, bent at the waist. Their hands blistered. Knees cracked. So, he fastened a broom handle—a simple stick bound to the bristles so no one would need to bend. Mira called it witch's magic. But when her knees stopped aching, she kissed his forehead and whispered, "No witch gives gifts like this."
His inventions grew. Pots with better grips. Cooking stands that used less firewood and left no soot on the pot's belly. Soon, the smell of soot was replaced with the soft fragrance of ghee and warm lentils.
The servants began calling him not 'Rajkumar' but 'Veer Babu'—the prince of small miracles.
But while the palace maids and helpers adored him, his cousins and the court began to shift in tone.
During the Dhanteras feast at the main palace, he sat with his mother, dressed in clean white cotton, when his older cousin Yashvardhan raised a golden goblet and said with a smirk, "Tell us, cousin. How fares your broom empire? Have the carts overthrown the throne yet?"
Chuckles circled the hall. Adityaveer looked at him, expression still. "No empire is built in gold alone. Some are built in sweat." The laughter stopped.
Later, in their private chamber, Maharani Devika ran her fingers through her son's hair, braiding it slowly. "You've stepped into the fire," she said softly.
"They mock me."
"They fear you."
"Why?"
"Because they spent their lives climbing walls. You… built stairs for others."
He didn't reply. She kissed his forehead gently. "Let them talk. Their tongues are sharp, but yours carves roads."
Business, by now, was thriving. Soap sales doubled. The carts were being requested by outside merchants. Local potters had started copying his designs. He didn't mind. In fact, he encouraged them. "If it spreads," he told Mira, "then all our lives get lighter."
Each month, he earned nearly 150 silver coins. He gave half to the workers. A quarter went back into his projects. The remaining sat untouched in a small locked chest—he called it the "seed fund."
One day, a royal decree was issued: Adityaveer must present himself before the King and his court.
He wore cotton, not silk, and walked with his mother through the arched gates of the marble court. Ministers lined the sides. The Maharaja sat above them, eyes unreadable.
"You've stirred the palace, child," the king said.
"I cleaned it," Adityaveer answered.
A silence stretched. One of the older ministers stepped forward, his voice sharp. "This boy undercuts guilds. He trades without blessing. He plays merchant, not prince."
"I play nothing," Adityaveer replied. "I build. And I give."
"You sell," the man countered.
Adityaveer held his gaze. "If dignity is sold through carts and soap, then I sell it proudly."
The Maharaja's lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. "Leave him be," he said. "For now."
That night, Adityaveer sat alone beneath the banyan tree, the wind still, the world too quiet. The system offered no charts, no advice, only a blank slate. For the first time, he felt the chill of doubt in his chest.
"Am I wrong?" he whispered.
Naina found him there, her lamp flickering. She sat beside him and placed a small lotus into his palm.
"When you clean the dirt of the world," she said, "those who live in filth will say you are unclean."
He looked down at the flower. "Do you think I'm strange?"
"I think you're light in a place that forgot how to glow."
He smiled then, small and soft.
Elsewhere, in a quiet marble hall where sacred chants echoed and scrolls hung from the ceiling, a girl sat hunched over her slate. Advika, daughter of the Rajpandit, traced the curve of two small circles.
"Wheels," she whispered. "Wheels move the world."
That night, her dream returned—a courtyard lit by jasmine, a boy with dirt on his cheeks and fire in his eyes. She didn't know his name, but she whispered into the wind, "I'm close… aren't I?"
And somewhere in the stars above, the battlefield universe stirred.